#127 At the Edge by Ellen Roberts Young

Beyond sand
stirred by
many feet I
step carefully,
called,
not invited.
I can name
few plants,
don’t know
which seed
rides my sock.
Quail
know me
as stranger.
Roadrunner,
rabbit scurry.
Drawn out, I
can’t stay long.
This landscape
knows bone
and flesh
has no use
for names.

Ellen Roberts Young lives in Las Cruces, NM.  Her chapbooks Accidents (2004) and The Map of Longing (2009) are published by Finishing Line Press.  Her recent publications include Common Ground, Slant, Melusine and qarrtsiluni. She operates Kery’s List, a monthly list of literary events in southern New Mexico.  Her blog is www.freethoughtandmetaphor.com.


3 thoughts on “#127 At the Edge by Ellen Roberts Young

  1. Hi Ellen,
    This is a beautiful poem that says a lot about the sands of time. Having been to New Mexico, this poem gave me a hunger to return and visit it again.
    Great work.
    Ciao,
    Patricia

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